The Sky Has Claws
by Taskemus
Summary: [HakuroxRose] He can’t take his gaze away, even when she spots him out of the corner of her vision and turns to look at him with fearful eyes. SPOILERS.


Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist

Notes: This is from Hakuro's POV. _Hakuro's_. Not Taskemus', Hakuro's.  
I am incredibly ashamed of myself for writing this.

Warnings: Spoilers for later episodes. Mentions of noncon.

It's always summer in the east; there are twelve unbearable months of sweat-drenched uniforms, of air so thick that the mere act of walking resembles more slogging through a murky, chest-deep bog than anything else. Today is no exception, especially here in the shadeless market at noon, the time when the heat and sun are most overwhelming. General Hakuro is sorely tempted to unbutton his uniform jacket, like many of the privates are prone to do (and even some of the more lax sergeants), but Hakuro isn't like them -- he has pride. His uniform is blue; he is from Amestris (Amestris that made peace with Drachma in the Drachman Revolution of 1868, Amestris that had the force to overpower the Ishbalians in the Ishbalian Civil Conflict). The last thing Hakuro wants to do is to abuse his authority, to spit on the graves of his forefathers, and so he keeps his uniform buttoned and holds his head up high as he walks -- the military has to uphold its image.

Endless blurs of people, wafting and spinning and stretched out in the heat, reduced to patches of light blue, red, orange. Voices floating into his ears with words that he doesn't have the strength to distinguish, and he half-closes his eyes as he turns the street corner and comes face to face with the sun, so overly bright that it practically burns his eyes. He can feel his shirt sticking to his back, and an uncomfortable pool of sweat around his neck, which he rubs with his hand for a moment -- the first thing he will do when he is released at 4:30 will be to take a shower. But there is paperwork waiting for him when he returns, along with the promise of a meeting (with the Fuhrer, no less, and a few of the generals from Central), and Hakuro, being one of the military's most prominent strategists, will be lucky if he doesn't have to stay overtime.

The cry of a hawk overhead, mixing in with the jumbled voices of anxious shoppers, street vendors, women pushing baby carriages.

A red shawl with an intricate black paisley design, and the woman who is wearing it is dark-skinned, with wide violet eyes, a tentative half-smile, and brown hair that falls into her face.

Everything comes back into focus -- the sunlight is more defined, less meandering, blurry. She has turned her head and is walking away, in the direction Hakuro just came from -- he turns and follows her (and he is aware that it might not be the same woman, that it could be someone else), keeping his eyes on the red shawl in a sea of people who are constantly shifting and moving. An adolescent boy zigzags past him, running wildly, and for a second he loses sight of her -- but then she stops at one of the stalls and picks up an orange, holds it up to the light and examines it. _The way your wife shops for fruit,_ a little voice nags at Hakuro, but he pushes the words out of his head and walks up to her, glad for the relative shade under the vendor's stall.

There is a baby in her arms.

And suddenly Hakuro doesn't feel quite so safe anymore -- it would certainly be a problem if the child looked like him, if when he grew older it was obvious who his father was. Ishbalians, contrary to popular belief, aren't stupid -- they can be deviously cunning at times, and Hakuro isn't blind to the threat that this baby poses.

He shouldn't be caught here even looking at this child, at the woman whose life he spared (even though she had been thoroughly foolish and didn't seem to deserve her own life then, much less that of a child).

But somehow, he can't take his gaze away, even when she spots him out of the corner of her vision and turns to look at him with fearful eyes -- there is a moment of recognition and then a sharp gasp, the sound of the orange hitting the ground dully, and the swish of her thin coat as she turns away and runs, glancing back morbidly, worriedly, every few seconds.

"Wait!" he calls out, and she stops dead, as if frozen, and turns back to face him (and he didn't really think that she would stop when she seems so weak, fragile, broken, already -- as if she has lost the will to live, he thinks).

He hadnít really thought about what he would _say_, and he clears his throat once as she looks at him expectantly.

"I -- Fancy meeting you here," he says weakly, conscious of the throng of people pushing past him as he stands in the middle of the street.

She opens her mouth but no words come out (and he was wrong. She isn't broken -- she is about to break, to shatter beautifully), and she looks at him with a gaze that isn't half as strong as he remembered -- but filled now with a different kind of power -- and finally she averts her eyes and looks down.

"Is this yours?" he asks, motioning to the baby (whose skin is more tan than white, he is pleased to note, and who does not seem to resemble him in the least). She nods helplessly, peering once over her shoulder, and Hakuro has the sense that she is about to take off and fly away suddenly, like an alarmed dove.

The baby's eyes are dark -- a deep, solid, brown, like his, in place of the woman's eyes, which are liquid and purple.

There is terror woven into her face as he reaches out his arms -- she flinches, but the baby is warm, and he can feel its beating heart as he holds it here in his arms for one heat-stained second.

And, closing his eyes, he can almost pretend -- until the child cries out for its mother and the noise of the people on the street filters back into his ears.

He hands it back to her, and with one last glance at him she flees, turning her back on him and disappearing into the endless mass of people, like an illusion, a hallucination, a memory of things that never were.

His wife and children are waiting for him at home.


End file.
